


southern california dreams

by cardinal__sin



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28897635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin/pseuds/cardinal__sin
Summary: Dundee, 1992 - Zargothrax is seconds away from completing his spell to wake the elder god Kor-Virliath. When Ralathor interrupts at the last second and derails the ritual and the immense magical energy of it, it creates a new reality: one where wizards, heroes and legends had never existed. Ralathor is stranded in this new, strange world, and he is desperate to find his way back to his own reality. But what if the new reality isn't so bad after all? What if, for the first time in his long life, he has a chance to be happy? He has to do the right thing, of course... But who's to say what is right and what is wrong when he's the only one to know of both?
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. prologue - now welcome, dear apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be my first long gloryhammer fic, and i'm really excited to share it with you! my only goal with it is to finish it, so we'll see how that works out.  
> (title from gravity by hollywood undead)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from raining stars by lord of the lost

The caves shook deep beneath Dundee.

Ralathor stumbled, balanced himself with a hand pressed against the harshly carved stone wall of the narrow tunnel. The barely contained power of chaos was slowly destroying the ancient citadel. He was running out of time.

He could feel his magic fighting with his body, one straining to walk towards the source of that raw power, the other screaming to get away. This magic was dark; misshapen and amorphous like a once-majestic creature beaten and broken into submission, its beauty snuffed and mutilated until nothing remained just pain and rage.

Zargothrax’ magic had been beautiful, all those years ago. A brilliant green swirl of pure power, unstoppable energy. Ralathor’s own magic would sing in its presence, his blue glow of jagged geometrical patterns finding comfort and beauty in the other sorcerer’s powers. It recoiled in fear, now, recognising the once-beautiful energy and shrieking with grief at its fate.

Ralathor fought against it, willed it into submission and kept walking, one stumbling step after the other. He was getting close, he could feel it now: like a strong wall of wind trying to push him away with every step he managed. His head ached with the pressure, a warm, tingling feeling making him aware of the slow trickle of blood from his nose. He could taste ozone – the taste of lightning, the taste of something awful on the verge of completion.

With a last step, he struggled out of the tunnel and into the deepest cave at the heart of the catacombs.

The light was almost blinding. Ralathor threw an arm up to shield his eyes and squinted to where the light was shining brightest. It was hard to discern, but after a few seconds, he could make out the crude stone altar and the glowing crystal in the middle of it. Zargothrax was standing above it, reciting an incantation in a language that was older than creation itself.

The light grew brighter with each word Zargothrax uttered, and Ralathor knew he would have to do something any second now to put an end to it all. He summoned his weak, scared magic, feeling it pulse within his soul like the panicked heart of a hatchling fallen from its nest. _Come on,_ he encouraged it, _don’t you want to save him too?_

And of course it wanted to. Their energies had been intertwined for centuries now, separated with cruel force, causing them both impossible pain. Ralathor could feel Zargothrax’ poor, butchered magic reaching weakly to his own, recognising its kin. His magic, almost sentient this close to its equal, its mirror image, was equal parts scared and desperate to help.

So was Ralathor. He had come to Dundee to stop Zargothrax, and he would, one way or another. He was just foolishly determined to save Zargothrax from himself. He knew it could come down to life or death and he knew he would have to be the one to walk away alive, but before that fatal turning point, he would try everything in his power to bring Zargothrax back to the light.

He stepped out of the cover of the wall and braced himself against the push of force the altar was radiating. With excruciating amounts of effort, he managed step after step until he came to stand in the epicentre of power, opposite from Zargothrax. The chaos wizard didn’t seem to notice him, not at first, just kept chanting, his magic flowing free around him.

For a second, Ralathor was struck by his beauty. Zargothrax had always been one for luxurious clothing and fine gemstones, a master of accentuating his almost regal features. But Ralathor had always felt more drawn to the beauty of his magic, the beauty of his craft. Now the two unified before his eyes, a being of pure, liquid energy with his hair flowing around his face and his eyes glowing like the will-o’-wisps dancing above the dark bogs in the dead of night. Raw, furious, unbridled power and an unearthly beauty. It was not natural. And as much as Ralathor’s heart ached for it, it had to be stopped.

“Zargothrax!” Ralathor cried, reaching out to grab on to his once-friend, the motion halting mid-air as he felt a force field-like power separating the two of them. He called again, louder this time, not minding the scratching ache in the back of his throat as he strained his vocal chords.

On his third try, he caught the sorcerer’s attention.

“You,” he sneered, teeth bared in a scowl, “what are you doing here?”

Ralathor hesitated for a moment, all the words he’d practiced in his head falling off his tongue when he attempted to speak them.

“I’m here to stop you,” he said finally, holding Zargothrax’ gaze,

“This is madness, you must see that!”

Zargothrax laughed humourlessly. Ralathor could see his gritted teeth and his straining muscles and he knew Zargothrax was about as in control of the powers of Kor-Virliath as the citadel of Dundee was of its crumbling walls. Zargothrax would have to finish the incantation or somehow undo it all, and soon. The might of the Elder God would be no match for the nigh-human nature of the sorcerer.

“Don’t lecture me on what is or is not madness, Ralathor,” Zargothrax spat, “I’m bringing order to this universe.”

“You’re unleashing chaos in its purest form!” Ralathor exclaimed, “How can you call this anything but destruction on a cosmic scale?”

“There is order in chaos. But I suppose you never could see that. You could never see the big picture.”

“Because you never cared to _show_ me!”

Ralathor spoke with desperation and raw emotion bursting in his voice. Although he knew it was foolish to let his emotions control him, he could not rein it in. More than a thousand years’ worth of confusion, betrayal, and hurt beyond measuring came rushing in, breaking through the mental barriers he’d hid them behind over the centuries.

“I would have followed you to the ends of the universe, if you had bothered to just explain it to me! And yet you left me behind! You _left_ me, and now you blame me for trying to find the right thing to do on my own? For trying to make sense of this wretched existence by myself?”

He stopped for a deep breath, chest heaving with the intensity of his words. Zargothrax looked struck, eyes fixed on Ralathor, ritual momentarily forgotten. Ralathor could feel tears of anger and sheer desperation spill over his eyes and down his cheeks, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“It’s easy to fault others for the things you’ve done,” he carried on, “but the truth is that you were the one to push me away. And despite that, I’m still here to help you. Stop this at once! Stop, and come back to me!”

The light in Zargothrax’ eyes seemed to burn a little lower. His mouth was still slightly opened, frozen between two words of the infernal spell. For a moment, Ralathor could see underneath the façade of the ruthless conqueror – a man in way over his head. Zargothrax hesitated, his eyes unsure and his mouth twisting in sadness.

“I –” Zargothrax started, “I don’t think I can stop.”

His voice was small, scared.

“You can,” Ralathor insisted, “you can. I’ll help you. Give up this power, give up your army, give up Dundee, and it will all be good. I’ll be there with you. We can try again, together this time. Make it right.”

Ralathor reached a hand to Zargothrax, trying to conceal how badly it was trembling. They would have to do it quickly. He wasn’t strong enough to endure Kor-Virliath’s raw chaos much longer. Zargothrax met his gaze, eyes once again their original deep brown, and reached for him as well.

Time and space seemed to shatter in a split-second. Ralathor dove to the side, out of the way of a falling rock that would have otherwise crushed him. His head hit hard stone and he felt the sticky warmth of blood pooling on his scalp. He scrambled to stand again, just in time to see Zargothrax scream in agony and fall to his knees.

Ralathor rushed to him, tearing through the magical force-field with all he could muster, catching the other sorcerer before his head could hit the ground. Zargothrax’ eyes were glowing again, and the same unearthly light shot out of his mouth, lit up the spider web-like pattern of veins under his pale skin. He was hot to the touch and he kept screaming even as his voice was slowly giving in to the strain.

“It’s too much,” Zargothrax rasped between two heart-wrenching cries of pain, his voice barely audible over the falling debris, “if I don’t finish the incantation, the power will tear me apart. It’s too late.”

“No,” Ralathor shook his head, “not if we can stop the ritual itself. At the source.”

“Ralathor, what –”

But Ralathor was already lowering Zargothrax’ body to the ground, laying him down gently. He stood and stumbled over to the altar, his legs a lot less keen on listening to his mind’s commands since he’d hit his head. The crystal embedded in the middle of the altartop was glowing menacingly, mist swirling in the depths of it. The crystal was the key to the awakening of the Elder God, so without the key…

He slammed his hands down on the altar, channelling his desperation and the last morsels of his strength into his magic. As his palms connected with the stone, his power surged through him, between the grains that made up the crude surface, like lightning cutting through sand. He could feel the molecules making it up, the traces of the blood that had been shed on it a long time ago, and the crystal in the middle, forced into the stone like a dull knife into flesh. Within the crystal he could feel it – the still-weak heart of Kor-Virliath, beating off-rhythm. It was weak. It was still weak, the god barely awaken, and yet Zargothrax was already losing control of his power. He needed to be stopped.

Ralathor had never been a violent man. He had always known that taking lives was necessary to achieve one’s goal, and he’d known just as well that those lives would eventually have a price. Still, as he heard Zargothrax wail in agony and as he felt the weak life force of the God, he could not find himself to care about any price. It would be oh so easy to wrap the tendrils of his magic around the God’s heart and squeeze a little, and all of this would be over. All that suffering, all that pain and death would be undone.

So he did just that. With gritted teeth, he willed his magic to cooperate and twisted himself around the eldritch heart, feeling its darkness like something tangible. Slowly, he squeezed, winding himself tighter and tighter round the heart until its beating became frantic, growing stronger for a moment in its last hurrah before Ralathor squeezed one last time. With a twist and a sickening, squishy sound, the God’s heart ceased its cursed beating, its remains left bleeding, twitching in the cosmic darkness between the planes of reality. Ralathor felt blood in his mouth and spat it out, drawing his magic back to himself, slowly pulling himself upright.

Something was wrong.

The shaking of the caverns had not ceased. Zargothrax’ body had not been liberated from the eldritch power. His screams had not quieted down. The edges of his robes were singed and so were the ends of his hair, his body quite literally burning up, unable to contain the power anymore.

“What –” Ralathor started, staring dumbfounded. He’d severed the connection! He’d done away with Kor-Virliath! This should not be happening!

“I can’t –” Zargothrax choked out, “it didn’t work.”

“But why?” Ralathor asked, his voice nearly hysterical, “why? It should have – you should be –”

“I don’t know,” Zargothrax coughed, and Ralathor’s heart broke at the sight of bubbling blood in the corner of his mouth, “but I can’t hold onto it anymore. It’s too much.”

“I’m sorry,” Ralathor murmured, “it was foolish of me to think it could be stopped.”

Zargothrax laughed. It wasn’t the dark, menacing cackle Ralathor was loath to get used to, and it wasn’t the hearty, good-spirited laugh that Ralathor had tried not to miss for centuries and centuries. It was weak and soft, and Ralathor’s heart broke once more.

“You always were a fool, my dear,” Zargothrax croaked, “but still you did more than I deserved.”

“Stop talking like you’re dying,” Ralathor scolded him, fully aware that he _was_ dying.

“Is there no way to let this power go?”

“I could,” Zargothrax trailed off, “there might be a way. But releasing this much magical energy – I have no way of knowing what it will do to our reality.”

“Will it _destroy_ the universe?”

“No,” Zargothrax shook his head, “I don’t think so. I was supposed to open a gateway to a different plane of reality. If I do this, there will be a new world in the place of this one. I just won’t have control over what it will be like.”

Ralathor was quiet for a moment.

“Will you live?” he asked finally.

“I hope so,” Zargothrax smiled weakly, not reassuring in any way, and reached a burning hot hand out to Ralathor. Their fingers threaded together, Zargothrax’ head lying in Ralathor’s lap, he closed his eyes.

His body began to glow, and soon Ralathor had to close his eyes against it, the light hurting his eyes. He could feel the searing heat of his friend in his arms and resisted drawing his hands away even as it started to burn his skin. Zargothrax did not scream. Ralathor felt his heartbeat speed up, his muscles spasm, but he did not hear him scream. He held on, knowing that it would all be over soon.

When the pain of it all became unbearable, Ralathor squeezed Zargothrax’ hand as hard as he could, body hunched over him to protect his head, even now to protect him. Ralathor felt himself become light as his body gave up the last fight and started to dissolve in the flow of magical energy. His lungs took a last breath before crumbling to atoms and dissolving in the all-consuming light. With this last, sacred breath, he steeled himself to say something he’d never had the chance to say. Now, in his last moment of existence, he would finally liberate himself from the burden he had been carrying for centuries.

“Zargothrax,” his lips, held still in existence with sheer force of will, stuttered, “I l –”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome, and if you feel like it, hit me up on social media or check out my other works: [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin) | [tumblr](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cardinalxsin/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/cardinalxsin)


	2. good morning, cruel world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a bit slower, but it's necessary before we get into the more plot-y bits of the story. still, i hope you'll enjoy it!

Ralathor woke with a start.

The world around him was merely a blur of yellow light and vague shapes, painted between the thin, black strokes of his eyelashes dipping into his field of vision. He tried to open his eyes fully and squinted them closed immediately. It was too bright.

_Everything_ was too bright, the sun shining almost aggressively. And his head hurt. It ached with an almost splintering pain, threatening to break his skull in two. He reached up with shaking hands and pushed his sweat-damp hair away from his face to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes. With a low groan he steeled himself and slowly opened his eyes.

The world swam into focus. Ralathor stared at his surroundings in confusion, trying to make sense of the foreign space. He was in a room. In a bed, in that room. Surrounded with knickknacks and strange clothes strewn across the room. So many clothes to wear, and still he was almost naked save for his underwear. Which prompted multiple questions, none of which he was capable of answering.

He sat up slowly, not really wanting to get out of bed but at least planting his feet on the ground as he came to sit at the edge of the mattress. He hunched in over himself, his elbows coming to rest on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

His head was aching something terribly. It came combined with the feeling that something was amiss, that something had gone wrong. He just could not tell _what_ he was forgetting. His last memory was of going to Dundee to stop Zargothrax before he could wake Kor-Virliath – oh.

It suddenly came rushing back in, making him groan from another wave of skull-splitting pain. The caverns underneath Dundee. Zargothrax’ hesitant agreement to stop. The heart of Kor-Virliath. And then the searing, white-hot pain that burned him alive along with everything else in that reality.

He suddenly became painfully aware of the absence of Zargothrax’ weight in his lap. The realization felt like jumping into ice-cold water, burning and chilling him to the bone at the same time, crushing his lungs. He heaved a desperate breath, pushing down the panicked sob that threatened to tear itself out of his chest. It was merely a shock reaction. It would pass. He couldn’t afford to succumb to it.

He had no idea where Zargothrax could be. Some part of him had secretly wished that whatever world they would end up in, they would be together there. But he was alone. Utterly, completely alone, maybe more alone than he had ever been during his thousand years as a hermit. Zargothrax had said that he was not sure if he would even survive, but – he couldn’t allow himself thoughts like that. He could not just presume him dead and carry on with his life. This whole thing was Ralathor’s fault, or at least half of it. He owed it to Zargothrax to look for him before assuming the worst. But where could he be?

_A new world will take this one’s place_ , Zargothrax had said – or something along those lines at least. Which meant that everything he had known about the world was virtually useless to him now. He had no clues, no lead to go on to even start his search for Zargothrax. Ralathor’s heart ached as he wondered what had become of Zargothrax himself, and of the others; the people he had been fighting alongside with back in that world. The Hootsman, the young prince of Fife, and all the soldiers and heroes who had been battling against Zargothrax’ forces of evil. What had become of them?

And what had become of _him_?

That one was at least a question he could _try_ to answer. He would just have to attempt to make sense of his environment.

The room he was in was utterly unfamiliar. Dull, off-white walls caged him in, the blinding sunlight pouring in through a large window. The furnishing of the room was old and run-down, in various states of disrepair, the clothes hanging on the backs of chairs and tossed in heaps on the ground colourful and made out of thin, flimsy materials. On the ceiling, a fan spun around lazily, creating a barely noticeable airflow in the warm room.

He had never seen anything like it. He was decidedly not freaking out (no time _or_ mental capacity for that, it would have to come later when it _would_ inevitably come), but he was uncomfortable and suspicious. He could recognize nothing of the things around him. They looked both too modern and too old to be the well-known wizard-inspired tech of Fife. Which meant that in this new reality, wizards had never influenced humanity as they did back in his world. Which, in turn, meant that wizards had probably never even come to exist.

Panicked, Ralathor turned his focus inward, searching for his own magic. He sighed with relief when he finally felt the familiar pulse of it in his soul. It was weak, weaker than Ralathor would have liked, but it was there, and when he opened his palm, he managed to summon a small, blue ball of pure energy. His magic was still with him. He was still alright.

His headache was not going away. He stood from the bed on unsure legs, feeling like he was nursing the worst hangover of his long life. A wave of pain pulsed at his temple as the blood suddenly rushed from his head, and he nearly fell back down before bracing himself on the back of a chair. Nearly blind with pain, he exited the room and stumbled through the rest of the apartment until he found a little cabinet full of pills and tablets. He reached behind a few rolls of gauze and pulled out what he was after – a jumbo-sized bottle of over-the-counter painkillers. Whomever the home had belonged to, Ralathor was immensely thankful to them in that moment.

He swallowed a couple of pills, washing them down with cold water from the tap. He splashed some on his face as well for good measure, trying to both further alleviate the headache and to clean up the sweat caused by the heat and stress. Now, with a bit more clarity, he decided to explore the place he had woken up in.

It was small and rather depressing – the messy bedroom he had already seen, and other than that, the apartment didn’t offer more but the small bathroom he had gotten the pills from and a living room with an adjacent kitchen. The untidy state of the bedroom seemed to be a recurrent theme in the entirety of the space – unwashed dishes in the sink, empty glasses on the coffee table in front of the beat-up couch. He couldn’t help but be a little disgusted by it. Having lived all of his life in strict order, this mess was all the more strikingly different to what he was used to. Whoever had lived here before him must have been either very busy, or very lazy. Ralathor wasn’t one to judge a book by its cover (or at least he never admitted to it), but the nature of the clothes in the bedroom led him to believe it was the latter.

Still, because the only thing he was wearing was underwear and he couldn’t see any different sort of clothes during his house tour, he supposed he had no choice but to wear the eyesores some people apparently classified as appropriate clothing. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to colours as a concept, even if he preferred simple, dark shades of blue, or, ideally, black. Zargothrax had always been a fan of colours and patterns and fine materials, and Ralathor had suffered through many attempts to get him interested in those things as well. But if he had to guess, he would have said that Zargothrax would find these clothes just as painful to look at as him.

Reluctantly, he grabbed the only clean pair of pants he could find; a yellow linen abomination with palm trees printed on it. It had deep pockets, which was at least useful, if not great to look at. The next item he picked up was a thickly striped shirt, obviously too large for him and clashing with the colour of the shorts. (Maybe he did end up learning something from Zargothrax after all.) He also managed to find clean underpants, and decided to deem them wearable, although he recoiled momentarily from the idea of wearing someone else’s private garments.

The shower was not amazing, the water cold and the pressure far below satisfactory. But he did emerge feeling fresh and clean, one small thing that made a world of difference. As he dried off, he gave himself a little time to think.

Obviously, the next step was to go out and look for clues, try to gauge a time and place – if it was even Earth as he knew it. Then, after making relative sense of his new surroundings, he would have to find Zargothrax, dead or alive. For the sake of his sanity, Ralathor decided to focus on the latter. If he had his magic, chances were that Zargothrax had his too, which was a liability if he’d ever known one. Zargothrax had been compliant and even eager to let Ralathor help back in Dundee, but he could not know how he would behave in this alternate world. He could be wreaking havoc out there. He could be trying to find a way back at any price imaginable. He could be searching for Ralathor right in that moment. (He could be lost, he could be hurt, he could be dying–) Ralathor had no way of knowing until he found Zargothrax again. And when he did, they would figure out how to fix it all. Together.

Ralathor stared at the contents of the cabinet above the sink. Besides the medicine, there was shaving cream, q-tips, three loose band-aids and a can of body spray. No sign of cologne or deodorant. He wondered if the person who had inhabited this wretched apartment before him was just a teenager. Since he had no other choice, he grabbed the body spray with a reluctant sigh.

“Wild Mountain Wind,” he read off the label, and sprayed a little into the air as a trial. It smelled even worse than he had expected.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he groaned to himself, but at this point he had no choice but to commit to it. With his teeth gritted, he sprayed it on himself.

If he muttered curses in forgotten languages under his breath while he got dressed, that was his business and his business only.

Still glowering to himself, he dug through the kitchen cabinets for something edible. With a bag of potato chips in hand (because this place could _not_ get any worse), he walked out onto the minuscule balcony of the living room.

The tiles burned his bare soles, overheated from the intensity of the sun, and Ralathor welcomed the pain, let it anchor him to reality. The sun was shining mercilessly, drying his freshly washed hair (and the wet spot it left on his shirt) almost unnaturally quickly. He sat down in the weathered plastic chair and slowly ate his bag of sodium and saturated fat, taking in the view that spread out in front of him.

As far as the eye could see, the city underneath him was filled with huge, uniform buildings. Small balconies, big windows, stores at the bottom of each of them. He assumed his apartment was in a building just like them. Far beneath him he could see a busy avenue, the sound of the vehicles crowding it barely reaching his ears. As he looked into the distance, he could see palm trees and a blue glimmer – the ocean, he assumed.

It didn’t seem awful. Not in the strictly geological and economical aspect: he could have landed in the middle of the Siberian tundra. Obviously a metropolis was a better end result than that. In every other aspect though, like how he despised the heat and the crowds of big cities, or how he was thrown across worlds into a strange place where he couldn’t even rely on the people or the level of technology he was used to; those aspects _were_ the textbook definition of awful.

Telling himself to stop wasting time, Ralathor stood from his chair reluctantly and went back into the apartment to continue his search. The potato chips had done nothing but remind him of his hunger, and he was eager to find out if the mysterious previous owner had any money he could, ah, borrow. And maybe he could even find something to identify his anonymous (and most likely involuntary) benefactor.

It took a few minutes of rummaging, but eventually he found a wallet in the pocket of a worn-out denim jacket. It contained some cash, a credit card, and a driver’s license. _Daniel Sommer_ , he read the name off the credit card.

“Thanks, Daniel,” he muttered, and pocketed the wallet. One more problem solved. Now, it was time to figure out just where he had ended up.

The asphalt was radiating heat, burning through the thin soles of the worn-out sneakers he had appropriated from Daniel’s hallway. He had made the last-minute decision to (against his better judgement) put on the hat with the sun visor hanging on the back of a chair, and blessed himself for it. His dark hair would have made his suffering ten times worse in the sun.

It had to be late afternoon, judging by the amount of people on the streets making their way to various bars and cinemas. Still, the sun was high and shining vehemently, not a cloud in sight to dim its light.

The air smelled of exhaust fumes and dust, and now that he was on ground level, all of the city’s expansive glory and glamour was lost to faded storefronts and grey cinderblock houses. There was trash drifting along the sidewalks with the small, blessed gusts of breeze that swept between the houses every other minute. Ralathor was still uncomfortable in the clothes he had been forced by circumstance to put on, but he had to admit at least that they were a sensible choice for the local weather.

He purchased a copy of the Los Angeles Times from a bodega on the corner. This told him a couple things: he was still on Earth. He had kept tabs on the Hootsman throughout the centuries and knew that he had resided in this very city for the better part of the last century. So, according to the newspaper, his approximate time and location was August 19, 1992, Los Angeles, California. That wasn’t a bad start at all.

He had always wondered about Los Angeles. He had never quite mustered the curiosity and willingness to actually come and see what the Hootsman was doing on the faraway West Coast. Obviously, his own Los Angeles would have been a lot different. Back in that reality, Earth had run an entirely different course of technological evolution. There were similarities, but they were few and far between, and frankly quite off-putting. If Ralathor wanted to keep the last shreds of his sanity, he would have to just accept the way things were now and stop comparing it to the things he had been used to, before.

He would be back in that reality soon, anyway. He would find Zargothrax and together they would figure out a solution faster than one could say _scourge of Auchtermuchty_. (It was quite a long phrase. Finding their way home would take a while, after all.)

Ralathor was currently at the _know thine enemy_ phase of his Grand Plan Of Fixing Everything. The enemy in this case was the city itself. He wandered around aimlessly, winding through back allies and strolling down boulevards, cataloguing every little thing that caught his eye. He was lucky that Zargothrax’ stunt with releasing Kor-Virliath’s magic had not turned him human. His memory was still as quick and extensive as before, and he had no problem taking in the onslaught of new information. It was jarring, of course, but he had lived through the rise and development of humanity. He had seen weirder things than what these streets could offer.

His appetite had, unfortunately, only grown stronger since the sorry bag of potato chips he had perused earlier, and he was painfully reminded of the fact as he passed a small kiosk offering food that smelled like grease and chili peppers and, quite frankly, heaven. Ralathor had never cared for human indulgences all that much, appreciating anything edible being a side effect of hermithood, but he had to admit that humans had the right idea with frying food in oil.

He was growing more and more used to spending his kind stranger’s money with each purchase, and ten minutes later he was finally unburdened by hunger. He made a mental note to buy groceries if he was to stay longer, and resumed his hike through the city. He had discovered that he was, in fact, in Hollywood. Not the fabulous, expensive side of it where only movie stars and divas resided, but the side that was nothing more but yet another big city full of people who wished to live anywhere else in the world instead of there.

Ralathor could officially count himself among those people, now. It had been his choice to come here, after all. (Although that wasn’t quite accurate; he had not chosen this place consciously, and his only other option had been to sacrifice Zargothrax. He supposed that everyone else would have chosen the second one, but a thousand years had not been enough to erase the strength of their bond. It was Ralathor’s true weakness, he knew it, but he was barely more than a simple man. Sometimes even he fell victim to his shortcomings.)

The sun was finally setting, its last rays painting the sky into shades of pink and purple one could rarely achieve with paint and canvas. A slow breeze picked up hesitantly as though it had only gathered its courage to come out when the sun was gone. It ruffled Ralathor’s hair and blew past him playfully, sweeping the worst of the heat from the streets and alleys, leaving behind a pleasant, mellow warmth. Ralathor felt immediately more at ease – stopping in his walk for a moment to take a deep breath: the first one he had taken in this world that didn’t burn his lungs.

The streetlights were flickering alive one by one, like lazy, overgrown fireflies. Ralathor had never been one for poetry or flowery similes, but he couldn’t help himself. As much as he felt lost, out of place, alone and (although he would never admit it, much less think about it _ever_ again) possibly even scared, the gentle grey of the dusk felt like home in a cruelly unfamiliar world. To reiterate an earlier point: errare humanum (wizardum?) est. He allowed himself this moment of sentimentality. Still, it wouldn’t happen again.

His headache was returning. Not that vicious flash of pain he had woken up to, but a dull, constant pressure behind his eyes, one that told him of exhaustion and his body finally reaching its limits. It had been an eventful day – not to mention the unknown effects the reality shift might have had on him. It was probably best to go back to the apartment and at least try to get some sleep.

He turned around, needing a moment to orient himself and recall the way back to the _correct_ apartment building out of the hundreds, if not thousands of identical ones. The city was alive around him, the sidewalks that had been empty a few hours ago now crowded with people rushing to one place or another. Ralathor was frozen in place, the sudden realization of the amount of people shocking him to a standstill. It had been too long since he had been around more than ten people at once.

Someone crashed into him from behind. Ralathor stumbled forward, a startled swear on his lips, trying to regain his balance. He could feel an arm grab him by the bicep and pull him back, steadying him.

“Sorry!” the stranger exclaimed, giving Ralathor’s arm a friendly pat, before he disappeared into the crowd again, expertly weaving his way through the masses.

Ralathor stared after him with wide eyes. _It couldn’t be…_

His hair was shorter and curling around his head like a dark halo, falling over his face and allowing Ralathor only a small glimpse of the dark eyes and the Greek nose. But even when he couldn’t trust his sight to reassure him, he was still certain in what – or who – he had seen. He would have recognised that voice anywhere. No matter what time and what place, what twisted reality. Ralathor could feel his heart beating in his throat, could hear his blood rushing in his ears, drowning out every other sound until the only thing echoing in his mind were those two short syllables and the painfully familiar voice that had uttered them.

He stayed there for a long time, looking in the direction where Zargothrax had disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome, and if you feel like it, hit me up on social media or check out my other works: [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin) | [tumblr](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cardinalxsin/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/cardinalxsin)


	3. sugar & tea & rum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this one got long. blame ralathor for being an annoying, angsty little shit. but here it is! we're gonna see a few new characters in this one :)

Ralathor slept fitfully, if at all. Seeing Zargothrax last night had shook him to his core, and his dreams had been nothing but vague, nauseating nonsense with flashes of green light and dark brown eyes. He woke in the morning feeling even more tired than when he had gone to bed, muscles tense from the intensity of his dreams.

He wanted nothing more than to inflict violence on the alarm clock that had woken him, but it was an unnecessary use of his already very limited energy. So he instead just glared at it and dragged himself out of bed.

While trying his damnedest to fall asleep last night, he had compiled a list of things that would have to be done if he were to stay in this world for a longer time. The priorities on that list were _buy food_ and _clean apartment_ and most importantly _get new clothes_. He supposed that if he wasn’t going to sleep, he could just get started.

Money wasn’t exactly an issue for Ralathor. It came from his magic and his being used to more advanced technology. He could just…make money appear on his (or rather Daniel’s) bank account. He never knew how exactly it worked, not one to go looking for an answer either in this matter. Looking a gift horse in the mouth and all that. So whether it was pulling the numbers out of thin air or off some multimillionaire’s offshore accounts, he couldn’t care less. He had money for clothes he was actually willing to wear.

As rigidly as Ralathor stuck to his preferred items and styles of clothing, he had to admit that Daniel (and frankly, most of the city’s population) had the right idea with the clothes they were known to be wearing. And since Ralathor was not in the mood for making himself suffer any more than necessary (physically, at least), he also purchased an array of summer heat-appropriate (but still decidedly not colourful) clothes besides the overwhelming amount of black shirts and pants. And a pair of sunglasses, because he had come to realize that his eyes _did not_ enjoy the brightness of Los Angeles.

Significantly more comfortable in his own skin, Ralathor set about bringing the tiny apartment to a state that at least resembled order. Empty food packaging and bottles were thrown out, clothes picked up, washed and folded, dusty surfaces wiped down. He noticed a few sad, yellow-leafed plants on the kitchen windowsill and took them in his care immediately. Ralathor had never been very good at caring for other life forms, always more occupied by his research than by the wellbeing of the plant, or lords forbid, animal in his care. But now, breathing life back into these plants with a whisper of magic, he promised himself to at least try and look after them.

After a couple hours, Ralathor finally collapsed on the couch. He was exhausted and his body was dully aching from exertion, but the apartment was neatly organised and tidy around him. Cleaning had woken his appetite, Ralathor noted, and dragged himself upright again with a scowl, ambling into the kitchen to find something to eat among the groceries he had gotten earlier. His running theory was that back in his original life, his magic kept his energy levels up even when food was meagre and hard to come by. Diminished magic meant his body needed new ways to get energy; ergo, more food. Which was not easy to get used to. Both the uncomfortable feeling of nagging hunger and the tedious chore of preparing meals were new and unwelcome complications to his life.

Lunch and the subsequent three-hour-long crash-nap on the couch left Ralathor with a crick in his neck and a strange amount of energy. It was unusual and therefore uncomfortable, the way his mind seemed to buzz away without prompting as he tried to focus on one thing or another. He had tried meditating, making notes about what he had witnessed in the cave beneath Dundee (hoping to find a clue on how to reverse it) and even something he had not done in quite some time – reading for pleasure. It had been maybe centuries since the last time that he had picked up a book with the intention to relax instead of gaining new and relevant knowledge to his current topic of research. It didn’t matter anyway – his mind refused to cooperate.

If Ralathor had a smidge more affinity for poetry, he would have likened the buzz of his mind to that of a fly’s: circling about erratically and seemingly without a cause before settling on a fresh piece of fruit or a slice of cheese. In Ralathor’s case, the enticing fresh fruit that had caught the attention of the fly that was his mind was the chance encounter with Zargothrax the previous day.

He knew he had to see him again. Even if it turned out to be his confused mind playing tricks on him, he would need to try. And if it really _was_ him…then it was all the more important Ralathor saw him again and possibly even tried to make contact. Although, he didn’t seem to recognize Ralathor last night. Could it be that he had lost his memories? Or was it really a mistake on his end and it never was Zargothrax to begin with?

Either way. He would go back to that corner and try to see if Zargothrax showed up again. It was barely a lead but it was the only one he had. It wasn’t like he could just _track_ Zargothrax with magic. Magic was good for a great many things, but it had its limitations. A horribly inconvenient limitation at that, really.

Thanks to the nap and the several hours of trying to get his frantic thoughts under control, it was nearly the same time of day as when he’d met Zargothrax. Ralathor pulled on his newly acquired boots with hurried motions, and practically ran the two miles to the nondescript street corner.

The boots bit his heels bloody.

Zargothrax was not there.

He did not show the next day either. Ralathor’s days became a blur of the same routine of wake up, try to remember any morsel of useful information about chaos magic and Kor-Virliath’s powers, eat something, avoid spiralling into the breakdown he’s been putting off since he’d first woken up in the bed he had come to call his own, go to the corner and wait.

He was slowly getting closer and closer to giving up. At first, he had been convinced that he could believe his eyes and his ears, but he never saw Zargothrax again. Not once. And that very likely meant that he had only imagined him there in the first place. It wouldn’t have been the first time for that to happen.

He and Zargothrax shared…a troubled past, one could call it. And after their separation, Ralathor had spent years, maybe decades, catching momentary glimpses of him only to have them turn out to be someone else, or, even worse, just a figment of his imagination. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities. He just wished to be right, just this once.

So he made his way back to that corner every evening, hoping that Zargothrax would show up again. That hope was fading with each day he had gone there pointlessly, but it was still there. Ralathor was far from an optimist, but he refused to acknowledge having lost Zargothrax until he had definitive proof.

It was maybe a week later that Ralathor was standing on that very corner, sipping on a slushy he had foolishly decided to try, wondering how humans had managed to make the colour blue into a flavour, when he saw him. It really was Zargothrax, he could be sure of it now. He looked exactly the same (well, except for the hair), and even his clothes made sense. In the way that they were colourful and over-the-top and separated him from the crowd perfectly.

Ralathor threw his drink in the garbage bin he had been standing next to, and followed Zargothrax into the crowd.

His destination turned out to be a location Ralathor had already taken note of during his walks in the area – a bar called _The Prancing Unicorn_. The sign hanging above the entrance depicted a unicorn standing on its hind legs and the name itself in fancy, made-to-look-old lettering. He watched Zargothrax push open the door and disappear inside along with a few other people.

Ralathor, once again, found himself unsure of his next step. He could, obviously, go inside and just talk to Zargothrax. He could go inside and observe him there. He could stay outside and wait for him to come out again. As much as the last option (seeing as it did not involve being in a closed space with many people) enticed him, he supposed that if he wanted to fix everything as soon as possible, he would have to take a more direct route. That being going inside.

The Prancing Unicorn was somehow both exactly like Ralathor had pictured it and nothing like it at all. The bar was furnished with dark wood and lit with lamps that cast everything in a yellowish glow, reminiscent of the candles and braziers of ages past. The people sitting around the tables were playing cards and rolling dice, each group seeming to play a different game, their chatter mixing in the air into a pleasant background hum. There were drinks of strange colours and scents at nearly every table, foreign aromas mixing with the burnt smell of alcohol. It all reminded Ralathor of the few speakeasies he had visited back when he had not quite been a hermit yet. A wave of unexpected nostalgia washed over him. This place, however strange, felt almost like home.

But he wasn’t there to waste time by suddenly exercising his sentimental muscles. He had a mission – and said mission was right there in front of him, mixing a weird, pink drink in a tall glass with a wide smile. There was a pair of young women watching him work, chatting with him. Zargothrax had always been quite the social butterfly, basking in the attention of his admirers. It seemed fit for him to do something like this. Not that Ralathor ever would have imagined him working such an inherently _human_ job.

Ralathor sat down at the bar right when the two women left. Talk about perfect timing. He swallowed his nerves and told himself to stay put. Sure enough, within seconds Zargothrax turned to him with a bright smile.

“Hi, what can I get –”

His smile faltered.

“I know you!” he exclaimed, pointing at Ralathor. Did he remember? Had he not lost his memories? Ralathor’s eyes widened in hope and surprise.

“You’re the guy I knocked over last week, aren’t you?”

_Oh_.

“Well,” Ralathor started, but that’s as far as he got. Zargothrax raised an eyebrow at him with a frown.

“Are you stalking me or something?”

Yes. Technically.

Lords, he should be saying something. Looking at the man without saying anything was definitely suspicious, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Hearing Zargothrax speak, without pain or urgency or carefully masked fear in his voice, carefree and conversational, hurt more than Ralathor could have prepared himself for it.

He did not know if he would have preferred for Zargothrax to have all of his memories. It certainly would have made things easier, but there was something in the way he carried himself now, like an enormous weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He seemed happy, safe and content. And Ralathor had always wanted for him to be like that. The world had dealt Zargothrax a bad hand, weighed his life down with misfortune and obstacles and conflict right from the start. Ralathor knew that most of the things Zargothrax had done had been his own choice, and he wasn’t ready to forget (or forgive) that, but he had to admit that there had been circumstances that lead him down the winding path of chaos magic.

Maybe it was wrong of Ralathor to cling so fastidiously to the previous reality. His reality. He had not even considered that things could be better here, where magic and destiny and prophecies had never existed, never influenced their lives. That going back there would only bring them more suffering, even if it were the _right_ reality. This changed everything. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here, should have left it at that, seeing Zargothrax and knowing he was alive and well and not tortured by his memories of his previous life.

“Hey,” Zargothrax said, “hey, c’mon, I’m just pulling your leg. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, dude.”

Ralathor dragged himself out of his thoughts and focused on Zargothrax. He seemed and sounded worried.

“Sorry,” Ralathor twisted his mouth into a weak half-smile, “long day.”

“I can imagine. Have a drink on the house, as a proper apology for mowing you down like that.”

Ralathor turned the offer around in his head. He _could_ use a drink.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” Zargothrax smiled, “so. What can I get you?”

“Surprise me,” Ralathor shrugged, not caring to admit that he had no idea what any of the drinks were. Besides, as long as it left a pleasant burn and a warmth settling in his chest, he was fine with whatever he was given. He couldn’t exactly get drunk, but it was a grounding kind of comfort, one he could definitely do with at the moment.

He watched Zargothrax’ back as he worked, chin propped up in his hand, idly zoning out. His mind kept returning to the downward spiral Zargothrax had interrupted, doubts and fears swimming in his head. Ralathor tired of it quickly. This wasn’t the right moment to doubt his own goals and intentions. Right now, he was to find out as much as he could about Zargothrax’ situation, how much he remembered, _if_ he had magic or not.

“Here you go,” Zargothrax set a drink down in front of him, “the _scourge of Auchtermuchty_.”

“It’s on fire,” Ralathor observed.

“Indeed it is,” Zargothrax grinned, “adds to the whole evil vibe of it.”

The whole…evil vibe. Alright.

“Why Auchtermuchty?” Ralathor questioned further. The town’s only significance was that Zargothrax had been born there, and he doubted that would be the case in this reality as well.

“Uh,” Zargothrax started, “my mom’s from there. It’s a small town in Scotland. And I thought the name sounded cool. You can say it very evilly, you know, like,” he deepened his voice into a growl, “ _I am the scourge of Auchtermuchty_. It’s fun!”

Ralathor gaped for a second, the sudden switch to the well-known megalomaniacal pathos giving him whiplash.

“Hey, by the way, I noticed that you have a Scottish accent,” Zargothrax carried on the rather one-sided (Ralathor had said maybe five words altogether) conversation in his own, decidedly-not-Scottish accent. It was a weird mix of the Californian drawl and his normal pronunciations. Being a second-generation immigrant had funny effects like that.

“I’m…from there,” Ralathor told his drink, which was still on fire. How was he supposed to _drink_ it?

“Oh, where from?”

“Cowdenbeath.”

“No way!” Zargothrax exclaimed, “oh, this is awesome!”

“What’s awesome about it?” Ralathor asked, rolling the word around in his mouth experimentally. Cowdenbeath wasn’t exactly glamourous. The only reason people knew its name was because of Ralathor himself, and even then, not many did.

“Oh,” Zargothrax chuckled, “It’s just that…I have a drink called _the Hermit of Cowdenbeath_. This is seriously the coincidence of the century. You wanna try it?”

Ralathor stared a little more, because that’s all he seemed to be doing lately. How was it possible that Zargothrax clearly had no memory of him but still had a cocktail named for him? It couldn’t be just a coincidence. What else could he recall, then?

“Sure,” Ralathor gave in still, curious to see it if anything,

“If you tell me how I’m supposed to drink something that’s actively on fire.”

“Oh, oops,” Zargothrax laughed, “there you go.”

He snapped his fingers over the glass and the lights flickered out, leaving behind a golden brown drink that smelled faintly of vanilla.

“How did you do that?” Ralathor asked, his blood turning to ice as he saw what was most definitely magic.

“I honestly don’t know,” Zargothrax shrugged, “it’s just a thing I do. But everyone has a couple weird tricks like that, right?”

“Right…” Ralathor muttered. If Zargothrax had his magic and no memories – or a few vague impressions of his previous life, same difference – that posed an entirely new problem. Just how much magic was still left in him? Could he use it as a weapon? Was he a threat? He couldn’t be. He seemed blissfully unaware of his own abilities, chalking it up to a personal peculiarity, nothing more. Ralathor told his thoughts to stop running amok and downed the now extinguished drink.

It burned – almost exactly as though it were still on fire – and left behind the same vanilla taste he had smelled in the flames. It was pleasant, comforting and almost homey. Strangely enough, it reminded Ralathor of Zargothrax. 

The _Hermit of Cowdenbeath_ was a stark contrast to the first drink. It was cold, a dark, nearly-black blue colour, and shimmering with a hint of silver. Ralathor took an experimental sip through the straw stuck in it, not sure what to expect from a drink that did not look potable at all. It was vodka-bitter and citrusy, with a slight sweetness hiding in the aftertaste of it.

He looked up into Zargothrax’ expectant smile and returned it, to his surprise, with one of his own.

“It’s good,” he said, catching off-guard even himself with the warmth in his voice. He couldn’t help it – the taste suited him perfectly. Even if the name of the drink was indeed a coincidence, it was just too fitting.

“Glad you like it,” Zargothrax smiled, “it’s one of my personal favourites. Pretty and tastes nice, that’s all I need.”

He seemed like he was going to say something else when a yell interrupted him.

“Yo, Zargo!” yelled someone from the other end of the bar counter, “you gonna stop giving out freebies and serve guests who actually pay?”

Ralathor flinched a little. That voice was very, _very_ familiar. Ralathor turned his head and couldn’t help the barely audible gasp that escaped him. It was someone he had not seen for way too long, not in his corporeal form anyway. But what was _he_ doing here?

Zargothrax shot Ralathor an apologetic smile.

“That’s Proletius; he’s sort of my boss. I could also say paid nuisance, but you get the gist. He’s right though,” he nodded his head to his left where a few people were waiting for his attention, “I gotta serve other people.”

“Of course,” Ralathor nodded, heart sinking that he didn’t get to talk more with him. _This is your chance_ , he told himself, _you have his attention_. He knew he would never get a better chance at figuring it – Zargothrax, his maybe-magic, his place in this universe – out.

“I’m not in a hurry,” he found himself saying, “and I suspect there are a lot of drinks on your menu for me to try. We could continue this later.”

He had no idea how he had come to say all that. Or what he even meant by _this_. But the words were out there and when he chanced a glance at Zargothrax, there was a hopeful warmth in his dark eyes.

“Sounds good,” he said, and passed a menu to Ralathor. It was printed on heavy paper, trying its best to look like some old tome of potions.

“I’ll open a tab for you, ask for whatever and Pro or I will make it. And tell me if you recognize any more of the names!”

He turned away with a small wink and Ralathor slumped in over himself in relief. Only a couple hours in this bar with a steady supply of alcohol, and he would be closer to finding out Zargothrax’ story. He could do that. And he would have his fun looking through the cocktails, if they were anything like the two Zargothrax had named.

Some of the names were perfectly unfamiliar to Ralathor, like the _Eye of Sauron_ or the _Tatooine,_ and some, like the pink, cotton-candy flavoured _Undead Unicorn_ or the series of shots called _the Questlords of Inverness_ left a dull ache in his chest that felt dangerously close to homesickness.

He ended up going through most of the drinks that were labelled to be not too strong, chatting about them – and a few other things – with Proletius. After Zargothrax, accepting Proletius being there wasn’t that much of a challenge, and Ralathor had not interacted with him enough in their original reality to be too struck about it either. He and Zargothrax had history; Proletius was sort of…always just a little outside of Ralathor’s interests.

Still, he was pleasant to talk to and he explained plenty inbetween serving others and making a new drink for Ralathor. He had found out about the bar’s name and a lot of the items on the menu being references to books and movies, about the games most of the people gathered in the bar to play, and about Zargothrax and Proletius being friends and avid fans of most of these games.

“The one you see those people play,” Proletius said while passing Ralathor a fruity concoction called the _Amulet of Justice_ , “is Dungeons and Dragons. It’s a roleplaying game. You get to have magic and fight monsters and everything.”

He proceeded to explain the game in a nutshell, laying out the character building, the strategies and the riddles, talking about campaigns and levels and character arcs. It was quite captivating, actually.

“Huh,” Ralathor muttered, taking a moment to wonder if it was as fun to play as Proletius made it sound to be. Seemed that way, really, but Ralathor actually had magic and with the things he had seen – the things he had done – he had to wonder why anyone would want that for themselves, even just as pretend. Still, he could see the appeal.

“Okay, I gotta ask. How come you don’t know any of these games?” Proletius asked, eyebrow raised. Right. Right. This was the part where Ralathor said something that wasn’t the truth. A lie, that is.

“My job didn’t allow for too much fun,” he settled on eventually, “but a lot has changed in the near past, so here I am, in a new city, trying out new things.”

That sounded believable. And it seemed like Proletius did indeed believe it. The eyebrow lowered and the suspicion slowly faded from his face, giving way to what Ralathor could only identify as curiosity. Well. He might have accidentally made Proletius think that he had been special ops or a secret government agent, but that wasn’t his problem now. He had his excuse and the man was welcome to fill in the gaps on his own.

“Tell you what,” Proletius said, “you seem like a perfectly normal, non-serial killer person.”

“Thanks?” Ralathor asked, not entirely sure what to make of it.

“No, listen,” Proletius carried on, “Zargo, our DM and I are about to start a new campaign and we need a third player for our party. You could come! We’ll help you make a character and everything. It’s dope.”

“You don’t even know my name and you want to play a weeks-long game with me?”

“Well. What’s your name?”

“Ral –” Ralathor started, realizing halfway through that it wasn’t exactly a normal name in this universe, based on what he’d seen so far. Not to mention that Proletius’ nametag read Paul on it, which… It was confusing, definitely. But it _could_ mean that _this_ Proletius’ real name wasn’t actually Proletius at all, just what he went by.

“–ph. Ralph. Is my name.” He took a long sip of his drink and nodded. _Ralph_. Truly the best choice for a name. At least it was somewhat similar to his own? The first three letters?

“Nice to meet you, Ralph,” Proletius grinned, “I’m Paul. But really, call me Proletius. Everyone does, I almost respond to it better than my real name.”

“Cool,” Ralathor mumbled, and shook the hand outstretched towards him.

“Hey, Zarg!” Proletius called Zargothrax over, who had until then been occupied with wiping down the tables – it was getting late, Ralathor realized, way past midnight, slowly nearing the bar’s closing time. There were still quite a few people inside, a testament to the rush that had kept Zargothrax from talking to Ralathor until this moment.

“Ralph here would be interested in our new campaign. What do you think?”

Zargothrax’ eyes quite literally lit up in excitement.

“That’s awesome!” he exclaimed, giving Ralathor a wide, giddy smile. Ralathor never would have thought he would see this expression – genuine, heartfelt excitement and joy – again in his life, and it felt like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him for a second with its painful familiarity.

“Do you have your Thursdays free?” Zargothrax asked, “we’re planning to have a session zero for character creation and everything next Thursday.”

“I’ve recently come into quite a lot of free time,” Ralathor shrugged, because it was technically true.

“Great. We usually meet at my place, I’ll write you down my address. Pro, can you fetch me a pen?”

Proletius grumbled something about incompetent, entitled employees but ducked into the staff room anyway to get the desired piece of stationary.

“We never got to talk more about your cocktails,” Ralathor said offhandedly.

“True,” Zargothrax nodded, “maybe we could… no, nevermind.”

“Could what?” Ralathor asked, leaning forward in his seat curiously. The old habit of hanging on Zargothrax’ every word seemed to die hard indeed.

Zargothrax pulled in a long breath between his teeth, absentmindedly scratching his beard.

“Yeah, fuck it,” he muttered, and pulled a pen out of his apron’s pocket. Had that been there for the whole time? Why did he send Proletius for a new one?

“Here’s my phone number,” Zargothrax mumbled, and before Ralathor could have asked _where exactly_ , Zargothrax took hold of his hand and scrawled the digits into Ralathor’s palm.

“If you want to talk. Or have any questions.” He looked confused by his own words.

“You’re a stranger, I shouldn’t have given you my number, you could be a serial killer –”

“Hey,” Ralathor stopped him, “Proletius already classified me to be a non-serial killer. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I’m definitely more worried about it now!” Zargothrax complained.

“It’s just that… I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

“You bumped into me last week, remember?” Ralathor smiled.

“That’s not what I mean. You just _feel_ familiar. I can’t explain it. This sounds weird, sorry.”

“I don’t mind weird,” Ralathor said, and pretended not to notice the warmth in his chest from Zargothrax’ smile. “I’ll call you. I need to ask what you put in _Magic Dragon_ anyway. It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.”

“If you think I’ll tell you all my secrets –”

“Then you’d be right,” Proletius interrupted, returning from the staff room with a pen brandished like a sword, “he overshares like crazy.”

“Untrue!” Zargothrax bristled, but took the (apparently unnecessarily fetched) pen anyway and scrawled his address down on Ralathor’s coaster.

“There. I’ll see you there next week.”

“Thanks,” Ralathor said and pocketed the coaster.

“Have a good…last hour of your shifts,” he addressed both of them awkwardly, and slid off his chair. He was tired to the bone and he could feel the pleasant, tipsy hum slowly fade into the hangover of tomorrow. Soon, he would be home. And asleep. God, to be finally asleep.

Once out on the streets and blissfully alone, Ralathor opened his hand slowly. Sure enough, the chicken scratch row of numbers were still there. They almost felt like they were burning his skin, weighing it down with an unspoken importance. Ralathor didn’t know why exactly it felt like it was everything, but the fact remained that those few drops of ink slowly seeping into the topmost layer of his skin were his most prized possession in this world.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and started his long walk home with a small sigh. After everything that had happened, he had expected his mind to buzz with unanswered questions and new information. It was light and free instead, washed empty by the cool evening breeze, leaving only ten little digits echoing endlessly in its wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome, and if you feel like it, hit me up on social media or check out my other works: [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin) | [tumblr](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cardinalxsin/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/cardinalxsin)


	4. enter: multiple complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit less focused on the plot, this one, but it does establish a bunch of important stuff, so yay :)  
> warnings for this chapter: discussions of past addiction/substance abuse, mentioned death of a family member. also the usual ralathor-has-many-problems disclaimer 
> 
> also at this point i feel like it's important to state that i'm only borrowing (parts of) the band members' names for the sake of the alternate universe, as some of the characters' names would not fit in with the "normal world". the fic still only discusses the fictional characters and not the actual, real life people. this fic does not portray my opinions on the band members. <3
> 
> EDIT: i forgot to add but this chapter features an original character, Torwen! I borrowed Torwen from the lovely [CamdenNightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamdenNightingale/), go give their stuff some love! Thank you again, dearest! <3

The door fell open, a loud bang echoing through Zargothrax’ small apartment. Ralathor in turn promptly fell off the couch he had been lying on, half-asleep in a spot of sun. He scowled as Zargothrax laughed at him and flipped him off half-heartedly, gathering himself to glare at the ones responsible for his graceless tumble.

They were, of course, Proletius and Torwen, their DM. (Torwen was the only one in their little group who had actually been blessed with the kind of hippie parents who wanted nothing more but to ruin their kid’s life with the worst imaginable name possible. Zargothrax and Proletius had perfectly mundane names in their day-to-day life and used their Dungeons and Dragons characters’ names because it was more fun, and Ralathor was doing pretty much the same thing with a few backwards loops fancily thrown in. He was going by his actual name again, having named his character after himself. It was refreshing, not needing to be called Ralph. A perfectly normal name for most, but it felt like an itchy, ill-fitting sweater more than a name.)

Torwen had a similar attitude to life as he had towards his name. Violent apathy. He was generally exasperated by everyone and everything, his humour cutting with a cynical edge. Ralathor could see why he was one of Zargothrax’ closest friends in this reality. He was actually a good man once one got to know him, though, and Ralathor considered himself to be fairly well acquainted with him at that point.

He had been in Hollywood – this Hollywood – for about two and a half months now and he was more and more certain he was – as they said – going native. Of course (if he were to embrace the near-obsessive spiral of thoughts) he could argue that if he knew he was going native then he couldn’t actually be going native as it was a process generally unnoticed by the person who went through it. But he had always been rather observant.

It was a strange thing, being constantly around people, not having the choice to just hide from everything in a cave for a couple thousand years. It had changed him. He was slowly opening up to people, to new experiences, and he could feel the stone walls he had built around his heart slowly grow weak and start to crumble into nothingness.

He had wondered if this was what it felt like to be human. He had people to rely on now, people he counted as his friends, people who called him over for pizza and board games and cheap beer. He had neighbours who talked to him in the corridor, stray cats that recognized him and begged for a good scritch behind the ear when he came across them. It was all overwhelming and confusing and new and Ralathor had been beyond afraid when he had noticed the changes at first.

He had settled into it since then. The urgency of restoring the previous reality had faded, becoming but a nagging little thought in the back of Ralathor’s mind. He had to admit that he was content with the way things seemed to be going; seeing Zargothrax happy, getting to be around him, the destruction of the universe not imminent for the first time in a long while. It was refreshing to know that his immediate problems were nothing more serious than his friends disturbing his dozing.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” Proletius said to Zargothrax, waving what appeared to be two celebrity magazines in his direction, “we got a two for one today.”

Ralathor stumbled upright from the carpeted floor with as much dignity as possible. Zargothrax jumped up from his seat in the armchair, practically running to Proletius.

“No fucking way,” he gaped, yanking the magazines from his friend’s hands and glaring at the covers with an intensity Ralathor had only seen in his eyes during the darkest points of their past. He still remembered those dark eyes fixed on him with that look in them, a look that was empty and cruel and a warning sign telling him to _run_.

He had done it – had hid away beneath Cowdenbeath to avoid having to think about it, to confront it again. This was not the time to think about that, though. He would not give in to it. He was just curious what could have prompted such an intense hate on a tabloid’s cover, was all. Nothing more at play, he told himself sternly, and willed away the tightness in his chest that he now knew to be the first warning signs of blind-eyed panic.

“What’s going on?” he asked, as neutrally as possible, coming to stand next to Zargothrax and peering at the covers over his shoulder.

He almost fell again, this time from sheer shock.

 _The King of California_ , one of the magazines lauded in a gigantic font, loud, yellow letters promising a long interview and an exclusive sneak peek at the next movie of one Jim Unst, featured shirtless on the cover, a necklace with a single wolf tooth around his neck and a cocky smirk on his face, blond hair braided along his scalp on one side.

That was. That was the _fucking_ Hootsman.

Ralathor considered fainting, but steeled himself and looked at the other cover. He blinked against the sudden nausea as he realized what he was seeing – some special edition with a list of the most eligible bachelors as promised in a reserved, classy font. Ralathor stared at the young man on the cover, clad in a charcoal grey suit and an emerald green tie, smiling confidently into the camera.

“Meet Angus McFife XIII, voted the handsomest man of the US in 1992,” Ralathor murmured, brain grinding to a halt as the words registered with him. Angus. Angus was here as well.

“What’s uh,” he cleared his throat and tried again, this time actually making sound instead of the rough whisper shock had reduced his voice to, “what’s the deal with them?”

He did not dare ask Zargothrax directly, afraid to see the look in Zargothrax’ eyes directed at him once again. He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it any more beyond that momentary tightening in his chest. He had become an expert in pushing down the urge to panic, telling himself to save it. It was foolish to react in such a manner anyway, as this Zargothrax had never done anything to warrant fear, to indicate any willingness for violence and destruction.

“Who’s gonna tell him?” Torwen asked with a smirk that was about as warm and friendly as an icy river in the dead of winter. It wasn’t personal – that was just how Torwen smiled at all times.

Ralathor risked a sidelong glance at Zargothrax against his own better judgment, and almost flinched from the raw anger still on his features. No surprises there. Ralathor knew he would have to… Face the music one day and figure out how he could work through the cold chill of pure fear that came upon him whenever Zargothrax behaved in a way that reminded Ralathor of the worst day in his long life. The day he had lost Zargothrax.

It wasn’t even a rational fear, for crying out loud. Ralathor knew that this Zargothrax was practically a tabula rasa, a clean slate. The same body, the same soul, for all intents and purposes the same person without the choices he had made in his previous life. This Zargothrax was much alike the one he had first met back when human civilization was barely just figuring out fire; optimistic and kind, spirit unsullied by the bitterness and scorn of the wizards. Ralathor was well aware that this fear was irrational. But a deep, almost animal part of him still recognized the pattern of hurt and readied itself for flight (Ralathor had always preferred that over fight), rational thought be damned. Ralathor despised the parts of him that could not be governed by logic and deliberation, but the fact remained that instinct was a part of him, and he could not get rid of it.

Proletius cleared his throat, snapping Ralathor out of his thoughts. Ralathor knew him to be the most attentive of them, and it had taken maybe two weeks for him to catch on to Ralathor’s act, cornering him in a gentle and polite way and interrogating him. Ralathor had spun a vague story – something happening to him on his previous job that got him an early retirement and a new start on a different continent. He was perfectly fine with Proletius filling in the gaps for himself, deeming it safer than accidentally saying something that was too definite, that could have exposed his lie in any way. Even so, Proletius knew enough – namely that Ralathor would become skittish and cagey when Zargothrax got angry – and he was good enough of a man to intervene whenever something of the like happened.

“Ralathor, why don’t you grab the snacks with Torwen? Zargo and I will set things up for the game.”

Ralathor shot him a private little smile of gratitude and nodded Torwen with him, retreating to the small kitchen. He knew what Proletius was doing. Giving him space to calm down while granting an opportunity to ask about the magazine covers without Zargothrax’ presence.

He puttered about the kitchen with a familiar ease, emptying bags of crisps and crackers into bowls, pulling out clean glasses for drinks. For a moment it hit him how familiar he had become with Zargothrax’ home, a testament of the time he had spent there. It wasn’t exactly new; they had been around each other plenty before _everything_ , and it was easy for him to lapse back into those habits. For Zargothrax, though. He was coming around Ralathor much faster than Ralathor would have guessed normal humans did. It reinforced his theory that Zargothrax had at least some aftershocks, echoes of his previous life. If anything, it would at least explain the immediate familiarity.

Torwen did not ask if he could help with something, just as aware of his purpose here as Ralathor was. He leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, heaving a small sigh. Ralathor glanced at him, a small affirmative, a sign to start talking.

“Angus McFife is the heir to Hammer Insurance, the biggest insurance company of the country.”

Ralathor only nodded. He had figured out fairly quickly that asking questions about things that people generally knew about would get him weird looks, and there were only so many weird looks one could get away with before questions would inevitably be asked. So he did not ask about Angus or the insurance firm, just listened.

“Zed –” Torwen always referred to Zargothrax like that, a letter made into a word, into a name. Ralathor supposed it was like Proletius’ Zargo and his insistence of using the full name, Zargothrax, at all times “– he only had his mom, you know. And she got sick. Insurance didn’t cover the costs of her treatment, even though they _should_ have accepted the claim.”

Ralathor sucked in a sharp breath. He knew where this was going. He didn’t even need to guess.

“Yup,” Torwen confirmed. “It got messy. Like. Rehab-messy.”

Understanding Ralathor’s frown, he quickly clarified.

“Not alcohol. God knows I wouldn’t let him work where he does now if it had been alcohol. It’s been more than a decade, too, and he’s mostly alright. He still has a support system and the staff and his friends look out for him. We’ve all been briefed on addictive tendencies and safety nets and, you know he wants to be alright, too. He worked hard to get back in the saddle and he’s doing a stellar job. Plus,” he added, “the whole bartending is more about creativity for him. He has a knack for pretty things.”

That, Ralathor had to agree with. Zargothrax had always been an avid fan of making things look good just for the sake of the aesthetic. Himself, his clothes… even his magic had evolved overtime into its most graceful, lithest form yet. And, well, it was a relief to hear that the man he had rejoiced to see undamaged – although he wasn’t quite without grief – was still moving past his hurt and thriving with the help of his friends. It made Ralathor think. If he had been a better friend, if he had come over his fear and shock and tried harder, could he have helped Zargothrax? Could he have prevented all that pain and suffering and destruction? Guilt rose like bile in his throat and he balled a hand into a fist to choke it back down. Not the time. Never the right time. It was a matter of the past anyway; no use losing sleep over it.

It was strange that it wasn’t Zargothrax himself telling him these things – Ralathor had always assumed that personal matters such as this were not to be discussed with a third party. When he voiced his doubts, Torwen smiled lopsidedly.

“He doesn’t really care,” he shrugged, “it’s just a part of him. And I don’t think it will be much of an issue. He trusts you.”

Ralathor’s chest tightened at that. Oh, how he had longed for precisely that, for Zargothrax to trust him again, after everything they had been through. This was not the same, not by a long shot, Zargothrax being completely without his memories, but it was still nice enough.

Still, with everything out in the open like that, he didn’t understand it.

“Listen,” he said, “I see what he’s got against the company, but why does he hate this Angus?”

Torwen clicked his tongue.

“It’s an association thing, as far as I can tell. McFife is taking over the very thing that took away everything from Zed. He’s rich and successful and he got there on the backs of people like us. He’s like the personification of the injustice Zed suffered.”

That made sense, Ralathor supposed. He knew Zargothrax. He knew that his anger was an all-encompassing inferno, barely a hint of direction to it. And this – yes, Zargothrax had never been particularly good at handling loss. It seemed that he was doing better here, in this reality, but he definitely could hold a grudge.

Still. Angus…Angus had always been _good_ , even when Ralathor had found him to be brash or obnoxious. The young prince had always had the best intentions at heart. Ralathor hoped that the only thing that spoke against him now was Zargothrax’ grief – he had been coping relatively well with this new reality, but such a corruption of a pure soul… He knew if that were the case, he would be finally out of excuses to put off his search for a solution. There were things Ralathor was willing to overlook for selfish reasons, but something of such a scale? He could not allow it.

“What’s with the Hoo – the other guy? Jim?” he continued his impromptu interrogation.

“Jim’s a cunt,” Torwen shrugged. “That’s really all there is to it.”

Ralathor hummed in agreement. That one was less difficult to believe. The Hootsman had always been a complicated man. Some of it came from his core personality, some of it from the unnaturally long life span. The Hootsman had been human once, a long time ago. Humans were not meant to live as long as him. It had warped his soul, the pure white of good turning a muddled grey over the centuries as he strayed farther and farther from good intent. So for him to be. Well. A cunt, as Torwen had so aptly put it, was not outside the realm of possibilities. Ralathor had always theorized that the Hootsman’s affiliation with the Forces of Justice had been due to serendipity and not the Hootsman’s unwavering morals.

“Cunt how?” he asked, turning the word around in his mouth, unused to such harsh curses. The word felt strange, almost alien on his tongue.

“I actually don’t know much about that. Something something, he was rude to Zed at a convention and now he has a vendetta. Or something.”

That was just way too much _something_.

But believable. Once again, Zargothrax knew how to hold a grudge. He had always had his problems with the Hootsman anyway, in the original reality, so it really wasn’t much of a surprise. Ralathor didn’t mind that he had no exact details. His head was already starting to ache from the onslaught of new information – the existence of Hoots and Angus in this reality, Zargothrax’ past…it was quite an amount to process in such little time.

And it was giving him a headache for an entirely different reason as well. Until now, he had been fairly comfortable with the knowledge that Zargothrax and Proletius were close to him and he could keep an eye on them, as it were. He had assumed they were the only two other people who made it through from the previous reality. But Angus and the Hootsman appearing, and as public figures? It made everything a lot more complicated. Ralathor had none of the advantages of his life as a hermit; he couldn’t just walk up to them and ask questions. He would never even get close to them.

“Hey,” Torwen said gently, shaking him from his thoughts, “let’s go back.”

Torwen was the opposite force to Proletius. Both of them knew when to step in when Ralathor would get lost in his head, but one would separate him from the conversation, the other would pull him back in again. Always judging the situation accurately, always interfering at the right time. Ralathor knew he couldn’t retreat into his mind now. If he did, he wouldn’t get out again. So he picked up a bowl of crisps and headed back to the living room, his head already clearing up as cheerful conversation drowned out his worried, circling thoughts.

He would need to find a solution. He would need a way to talk to Angus and the Hootsman, to find out if they could remember anything, and if yes, how much. He needed every bit of information he could get from them. It was becoming more and more obvious that this reality was far less perfect than it had seemed in these months.

He would figure this out. He _had_ to figure this out.

But first: game night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome, and if you feel like it, hit me up on social media or check out my other works: [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin) | [tumblr](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cardinalxsin/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/cardinalxsin)


	5. glitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! sorry for the wait and all! a quick heads up: i started this fic with a weekly update schedule and then i found out that school and life and SCHOOL would be too much for me to keep that up. cue random hiatus where i tried to figure out what to do. the current solution seems to be a bi-weekly update which will, regrettably, slow down the progression of the story somewhat (sorry) but hopefully i'll be able to keep up with this new one. good luck me! oh, and i hope you'll enjoy this chapter! shit's finalllllly starting to hit the fan :^)  
> 

Proletius paused the second-rate spy movie and jumped up from his seat. Ralathor glared at him; the suspense of the con had gotten the best of him and he was anxious to know whether the dashing hero would manage to stop the diamond heist and save his paramour. It was a bit dull, he supposed, unrealistic even, but it did what it was supposed to do – roped in the viewer and provided ninety minutes of proper fun. (Ralathor was slowly getting used to having fun. It was taking tremendous amounts of effort, but he was learning. According to his friends, movies were _fun_.)

“What?” Zargothrax asked gruffly, slurping menacingly with his straw.

“I got it!” Proletius said excitedly, “I know how we’ll get you to meet up with Unst!”

Ralathor raised an eyebrow at him. He had only told the men as much as they strictly needed to know, namely that he needed to talk to Mr Unst about a few pressing issues. If he hadn’t until then, Proletius most definitely thought him to be a secret agent after that announcement.

Proletius glanced to the TV, then back at Ralathor with a grin. Ralathor looked back, clueless. It was Zargothrax who figured it out in the end.

“Oh fuck off,” he scowled.

“What? It’s a good idea!”

“Like he would ever get away with it! He’s got a good poker face, sure, but that won’t be enough.”

“If you’re talking about me, I’m right here,” Ralathor muttered around a mouthful of popcorn, “also. What are you talking about?”

“You’re going to pretend to be a journalist and do an interview with him. That way you can get your answers!”

Zargothrax thankfully did not have the same inhibitions as Ralathor, and wasted no time letting Proletius know how bad and idiotic that plan was. Ralathor barely even bat an eye at the amount of foul words Zargothrax hurled at his friend’s head, a testament to the months spent in his presence. He supposed he had always been immune to Zargothrax’ tendencies of making his opinions known by excessive cursing. It was a strange thing to feel nostalgic about, though, that was certain.

“I don’t think that would work,” Ralathor added when Zargothrax finished his tirade and went back to drinking his coke with a frown, “how am I going to pass as a journalist?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Proletius assured him, “I’ll help you talk to that bastard even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Ralathor wondered whether Proletius thought he would try to assassinate the Hootsman and that was why he was so eager to help. He really had no clue what his two friends thought he was – spy, ex-intelligence, contract killer – but he didn’t particularly care. They had no problem with him, and that was more than he could have asked for.

Still, sometimes he reconsidered his fond feelings of the two men – one of those times being the present, as Zargothrax bodily threw himself at Proletius to wrangle the remote from him, spilling Ralathor’s drink in the process. And if Ralathor let fly a few choice words he would never have said only months ago, then that was his business. He was learning to have fun.

* * *

His nerves were eating him alive. He sat in the lobby with a couple other harried-looking journalists fishing for the next good story, legs bouncing as he waited. He had no clue what strings Proletius had managed to pull but he was there, with an entirely authentic press badge, minutes away from seeing the Hootsman.

It was then that the realization hit him that he probably should have prepared at least somewhat. Have a few questions on hand, or something. As things were, he had no idea how he was going to get answers from the Hootsman. He was not a master of words, not like Zargothrax had been, he didn’t know how to twist his words until the Hootsman – or, more precisely, Jim Unst – opened up for him and gave him answers to questions he hadn’t even formulated in his head.

A row of murmurs ripped through the overcaffeinated crowd, and Ralathor raised his head to see what it was about. The Hootsman, he realized, taking him in in all his faded jeans and white v-neck t-shirt glory. He was talking to an assistant who was desperate to keep up with his pace and take notes simultaneously, occasionally sipping from a to-go cup of coffee. Ralathor felt anxiety twist in his stomach. The time had come for his only shot at understanding a bit more of this world. He could not screw this up.

The Hootsman swept his gaze along the line of journalists, obviously not enthused about the prospect of answering the same ten questions twenty times. Ralathor straightened under his heavy gaze, trying not to appear nervous. He had no concept of fame or idolization, not like humans did anyway, and the weight of the situation (being that he was the centre of attention of a famous person) did not affect him quite as much as any of the other people there. No, his nerves came from the impending doom of the multiverse. Totally different, that one.

The Hootsman’s cold gaze stopped on him, eyebrows drawing together before he held up a hand to silence his assistant. The poor thing stopped in the middle of a word with a meek little sound and Ralathor allowed himself a half-second of pity. Working for him could not be easy.

“You,” the Hootsman said then, pointing very clearly at Ralathor, “you’re first. Come on.”

“But sir,” the assistant protested, “the appointments–”

“I said he’s first,” the Hootsman boomed, and Ralathor saw it best to stand and follow him, causing as little of a scene as possible. He flashed an apologetic grimace to the assistant, for good measure.

“Sit,” the Hootsman commanded and gestured to one of two armchairs positioned opposite from each other. Ralathor sat.

The Hootsman threw himself down into the other seat, reached over to the small table and poured a finger of whisky each in two crystal tumblers. Ralathor accepted the drink with a puzzled look. Was it customary to be treated to a drink by a celebrity during an interview?

“So,” the Hootsman leaned forward, “would you care to explain exactly what the fuck is going on here, Ralathor?”

Ralathor stared. And gaped a little. And then stared some more. He had always prouded himself in his exceptional mental capacities, but this, _this_ was enough to break his damn brain.

“You know who I am?” he managed, voice weak. He took a sip of his drink, hoping it would bring him to his senses. It didn’t, but at least the burn caught him off guard and he choked rather spectacularly. All in all, a very successful attempt at gathering himself.

“Why wouldn’t I? I have to admit it’s a surprise to see you in LA instead of a damp cave, though, so you could start with explaining that.”

“Huh,” Ralathor summed up his thoughts (of which there were none, brain still desperately trying to boot back up).

“Yep,” the Hootsman said, popping the p, “also I’m pretty sure this LA is not _my_ LA, so please, if you have any thoughts about whatever is going on, do me a favour and share them.”

“Right. That might take a while.”

The Hootsman nodded and got up, poking his head out the door.

“Send everyone home,” Ralathor heard him tell his assistant, “take the rest of the day off. Buy yourself something nice, I’ll pay for it.”

Ralathor rolled his eyes as he heard the wink in his voice. The Hootsman was an incorrigible flirt, and Ralathor could only hope his poor assistant got paid well enough to put up with it.

“There, now we have time,” the Hootsman said, self-satisfied, as he sat back down again.

“Yes, well,” Ralathor swallowed, “here’s what I know.”

He told the Hootsman everything, from the caves beneath Dundee to the awakening of Kor-Virliath, his subsequent awakening in this twisted reality and all the things that were different from their home dimension. The Hootsman listened to him in thoughtful silence, taking it all in. He was a smart man, sometimes even too smart for his own good, and Ralathor was (regrettably) among the men who tended to forget that, caught up in the cocky attitude and the bloodthirst to see the brains underneath it all.

“So what you’re saying is that… you used to be friends with Zargothrax? You? And him?”

“That’s not the point,” Ralathor dismissed him, now thankful that he had omitted the fact that he was once again friends with the man, seeing the glint of anger in the Hootsman’s eyes.

“Kind of is,” the Hootsman frowned, “you wanted to save _him_. That’s why this is all happening. Correct?”

Ralathor did not enjoy the lecturing tone, but had to agree. This was his fault more than anyone else’s, and the Hootsman’s anger was justified to an extent. Still he bristled under his piercing gaze. It wasn’t like he hadn’t made mistakes! He had left a string of bodies longer than his stupid beard in his wake, slaughtered his way to a different continent in search of inner peace, or something. Just because it didn’t end the world, didn’t mean it was _right_.

“Angus,” he said instead, angling to carry the conversation in a different direction, “he’s the only one I know nothing about.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” the Hootsman waved, “I already spoke to him. He knows nothing. Makes quite the cunning insurance shark, though. It’s a little scary, seeing him like that. He was a good kid.”

That, Ralathor didn’t have much experience with. He had spoken with the prince a few times, yes, but that had not been enough time to get a good read on him. He was much like his forefathers, in that he was determined and pure of heart, nearly desperate to stop Zargothrax the way his namesake had a thousand years ago.

“Tell me,” he inquired, “how is life treating you here?”

“I’m human, for one,” the Hootsman laughed easily, “it was a bit much to get used to but I’m doing fine. Still making movies.”

“I’ve seen, yeah,” Ralathor nodded, recalling the magazine cover, “it’s not a bad life, is it?”

“I miss my axe. Otherwise? Not much has changed. Technology is a bit less advanced but hey, we can learn how to make do.”

“Yeah. That’s good,” Ralathor exhaled. Maybe it was all fine. If the Hootsman was doing well, he had no reason to demand a solution to this little universe shift.

“Wait. How do you…remember? What it was like before?”

“No idea. I just woke up here, squishy and human, and people were calling me–” he made a face, accompanied by a disgusted little sound “–Jim. I couldn’t have been cursed with a blander name.”

Ralathor once again kept quiet about his Ralph-fiasco and his friends’ real names. The latter once again because he felt no willingness to go down the rabbit hole that was his rekindled friendship with Zargothrax.

“But otherwise it’s fine, right?” he urged, desperate to hear a real reassurance from the Hootsman, a sort of permission to let him keep ignoring the dimension-sized elephant in the room and go back to the cosy little life he had made here. Ever the mind-reader, the Hootsman laughed at him.

“Of course it’s fine, I’m a goddamn superstar. Life’s good, Ralathor.” Oh, that was good. That meant this was okay. “Except for the glitches.”

Ralathor’s jaw dropped in shock.

“The what-nows?”

“You know,” the Hootsman waved his hand, “sometimes the edges of reality fizz out into static, or a glass of very nice whisky disappears, that sort of thing? Glitches!”

“I…” Oh no. Oh, no. Oh hell no. This was bad news, this was terrible, horrible, awful bad news. Ralathor felt the colour rush from his face, cold sweat making him shiver as his stomach turned.

He had thought that the world was alright. That they were safe, away from the troubles of the old world. If it was failing, like the Hootsman said… That meant the fabric of reality was coming apart at the seams. The safe haven of an alternate universe Ralathor had lived so comfortably in for the past months had suddenly become a time bomb, each second another tick, another tock until it would all fall apart, damaging the multiverse itself down to its core. He had been conceited, too trusting of his own abilities, to think his and Zargothrax’ magic, or even the power of Kor-Virliath would be enough to maintain an entire plane of reality for so long.

There had to be a reason the glitches first showed up for the Hootsman. If Ralathor had to wager a guess, he would have said that it was a consequence of the Hootsman’s memories having remained intact after the shift. He had been nowhere near the eye of the storm so to say; his being was not soaked through with dark cosmic energy, the same cosmic energy that kept the equilibrium of this reality. Keeping him there, keeping this millennia-old, confused, battered conscious in its place in this dimension took way too much energy, way more power than the universe had for it. Reality had started to unravel around the Hootsman because he was an anomaly, a speck of dust in delicate machinery.

And he didn’t have any of the answers Ralathor had come looking for. All he had were bad news, ones that launched Ralathor into wide-eyed panic as he realized that he was running out of time. He had gotten awfully comfortable in this little life he had carved from this unnatural plane, and had abandoned his research for the sake of playing house with a long-lost friend who had no memory of him whatsoever. He now realised just how foolish that really was, and wanted to scream, punch something, punish himself for his own stupidity. How could he allow this? How could he – why did he save Zargothrax in the first place?

“Ralathor, hey” the Hootsman murmured, placing a hand on Ralathor’s knee in an attempt to ground him. He took a shaky breath as he pulled himself from his thoughts and back to the Hootsman’s office.

“Is everything okay?”

“Nothing is okay,” Ralathor hissed through gritted teeth, aware of the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes: the tears of anger and helpless despair. “This is my fault. I have to make this right.”

“Can you?” the Hootsman asked, and for the first time in their long mutual history, Ralathor saw worry in his eyes. Worry. For _him_.

“I have to try,” he said, avoiding a real answer, “I guess you’ll find out when we’re back in Dundee. Or dead.”

“Great prospects,” the Hootsman said grimly, and stood when Ralathor did, escorted him to the door.

“Take care, old friend. Best of luck to you.”

Ralathor spent the way home wondering why it took the nearing end of the multiverse for the Hootsman to call him his friend for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome, and if you feel like it, hit me up on social media or check out my other works: [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin) | [tumblr](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cardinalxsin/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/cardinalxsin)


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